


Through the Timeless Lights

by Splashattack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Canon, Vacation, really there's too much fluff here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale aren't left with much after the Day the World Didn't End.They have each other, though, and it's right, and less, and so, so much more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Through the Timeless Lights

There are some things we don't talk about, avoid like the plague, cringe at the mere thought of discussing.

There are many reasons for this hesitancy, but they all have a common root: the basic instinct to avoid pain. Embarrassment, rejection, hardship: all beings are programmed to their core to avoid these.

As such, the Day the World Didn't End wasn't discussed. 'Mass hallucination', they called it; they blamed it on pollution, they blamed it on stress, they blamed it on disease.

They _didn't_ talk about it.

All beings are programmed to their core to avoid embarrassment, and rejection, and hardship. This includes an angel and a demon, trying to scrape the remains of themselves into something resembling what they once were, trying to pretend they weren't of glass, cracked and splintered and all but shattered. This includes an angel and a demon, hiding their struggle for normalcy behind well-constructed façades, hiding their fragility and fatigue and injuries. This includes an angel and a demon, and they _didn't_ talk about it.

Later, they would look back and wonder whose idea the trip was. They might pretend to fight over it, tender smiles as ammunition, or they may agree that it was a joint effort.

Either way, both would know, deep in the cores of their beings, that it had passed between them: a group idea, a collective conscience, a shared desire and desperate need.

They wouldn't talk about this, either. But they would know.

* * *

There would be a church, later. A church and a rose window and a spiral of colors, ethreal and occult, and two halves finally joined, and it would be beautiful.

Now, though, we have two sides to a coin stepping out of a vintage car: one milky and soft and delicate-looking, all books and dandelion fluff and light; one sharp and brittle and rough, an exploding star in a neat package, fading to dark. One, an angel, called Aziraphale; one, a demon, called Crowley. The Angel of the Eastern Gate and the Snake.

The angel straightened his cream coat, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he brushed nonexistent dirt off a sleeve. The demon contorted out of the car in a way that shouldn't have been possible; watching him in the act, it would seem like he could slip into any crack, as fluid as water. Once, that would have been true.

Neither would ever be sure why they choose to visit Chartes, France, but both would know they felt a pull to the Chartes Cathedral once there, despite it being consecrated ground. They both knew, somehow, that it wouldn't be an issue. They both knew, but still would blame their attraction to the cathedral on the fact that it was one of the few Gothic churches neither had influenced the construction of.

They both knew, and they _didn't_ talk about it, and it was good.

* * *

"Crowley," Aziraphale started, holding the hotel's door open for a woman in a sundress entering behind them as Crowley slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets in an oh-so-serpentine fashion, waiting for his angel. "I _do_ hope you'll be able go inside."

Crowley kept his face carefully clear of any hope: hope cannot exist without doubt, and Aziraphale couldn't know Crowley doubted himself. "It'll be fine, angel," he drawled lazily, pushing off the marble wall with his back to fall into step next to Aziraphale as they progressed further into the hotel. It was impressive, really; tasteful fountains, grandiose staircases, and spoiled but exquisite plants gave the building the luxurious air of the 1920s.

"But, my dear, I'd feel absolutely dreadful for us to have come all this way, without even being able to see the cathedral," Aziraphale fretted, rubbing his pinky nail with his thumb. Crowley ached to lean over--it'd be _so_ easy, nothing more than scratching an itch--and stop him.

Neither of them talked about the fact that they'd only come so far because the church felt _right_. Neither of them talked about the fact that 'right' wasn't the correct word; it said too much while leaving too much unsaid, uncommunicated, untouched. Neither of them knew what to make of it.

"Angel," Crowley responded, but it wasn't an answer; he was cocking his head to the counter, where a man in a tidy suit with a pin on it, reading "Luc Roussel: directeur de l'hôtel", was waiting for Aziraphale's attention.

"Bonjour, monseiur," the man said, "bienvenue à l'hôtel de fleur. Comment puis-je vous aider aujourd'hui ?"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who shrugged with a lazy grin. "Hope your French is a bit better now than in the Bastille, angel," he commented, and Aziraphale could have been swept away with that comment, with how _open_ Crowley seemed. Caught momentarily in his thoughts, it took a moment to answer the demon's prompt.

"Ah. Yes. Well, you see..." Aziraphale began, and trailed off as Crowley nodded again to man behind the counter. Aziraphale placed a quick blessing on the man in apology; never again would he have to wait more than ten minutes at the doctor's office before being called back.

"Yes. Bonjour, monsieur. Mon français est très... mal, monsieur, or is it mauvais? Désole, monsieur, parlez-vous l'anglais ?" His pronunciation, Aziraphale noted with dismay, was much worse than it had been when he and Crowley had gotten crepes.

"Non," the man responded, and Aziraphale wanted to groan. He was preparing himself to continue, trying to remember the word for 'card', when Crowley stepped in front of him with a dramatic roll of his eyes visible even under his glasses, and, much to Aziraphale's surprise, began speaking in rapid-fire French, turning away a minute later with a key rather than a card. 

"Room 143," he stated, flicking the key in circles around his finger as the pair made their way to the stairs before shrugging at Aziraphale's shocked look. "What, angel? Downstairs believed I was responsible for the French Revolution, they'd probably be a bit suspicious if I couldn't speak it."

Aziraphale didn't comment.

* * *

Their room wasn't as large as the grand entry of the hotel would have one believe; it contained a single bed (for Crowley) and an overstuffed armchair (for Aziraphale). A door led to the bathroom, walls covered in beautiful white-and-gold details, and with a jacuzzi tub. The room they would stay in kept the same magnificent aura as the entrance to the building, but on a much smaller scale: no tasteful fountains or grandiose staircases, and only one spoiled but exquisite plant, which started trembling as soon as Crowley entered the room, as if it could tell plants should fear him. He snarled at it, and the shaking stopped before Aziraphale noticed. The walls were still of marble, though, and the bedframe had a delicate gold engraving into it. Sinking into the chair, Aziraphale gave a hum of approval.

Later, they would look back and share their thoughts from that first night. The angel would share the itch in his wings, and the demon would share his loneliness. Both would rejoice in the truth that those were issues of the past; together at last, they would never again need to worry about embarrassment, or rejection, or hardship, and it would be beautiful.

Now, though, we have two sides to a coin, one pretending to sleep and one pretending to read and both yearning for one another.

* * *

An angel and a demon pushed their way out of a majestic hotel, gravitating towards one another as they walked but never touching, so careful not to touch; two hurricanes in opposite directions afraid of collapsing if they were to so much as even brush, but wanting it, oh, wanting it.

They climbed into a vintage car, one sitting properly, hands in his lap, and one preforming what looked like an olympic tumble routine. The door closed, and the two halves sped away to the Chartes Cathedral.

 _Technically_ , Aziraphale knew, the cathedral was supposed to be closed today. But _technically_ , he was an angel, shouldn't he be allowed in a church? A quick miracle ensured that everyone else agreed, and he and Crowley now stood before the doors, a slightly worried--but very well masked--look on the demon's face.

"Shall we?" Aziraphale asked, but he was hesitating, because they'd come here because it was right, though that was the wrong word, and it wouldn't be if Crowley couldn't come, couldn't be if Crowley couldn't come, shouldn't be if Crowley couldn't come.

Crowley, it turned out, could come.

Later, they would look back and wonder why, wonder how, because this was consecrated ground, and it was supposed to feel like a beach in bare feet. And it definitely _was_ consecrated, the angel would _know_ if it wasn't, and nothing had changed in the demon.

Later, they would look back and wonder how the demon entered the church, and they would never know.

And, eventually, they wouldn't talk about it.

Now, though, we have two sides to a coin, walking into an empty Gothic church because it was _right_ , but less than that, and somehow, simultaneously, so, so much more.

* * *

Later, they would wonder who first saw the lights shifting on the floor, reds and greens and yellows and blues and a whole myriad of hues between. They would come to the conclusion that they danced because of the cars outside, but both would know, deep down in the cores of their beings, that it was more than this; no coincidental human act could create something this perfectly stunning, this breathtaking. Time itself seemed to slow down as the swirling beams illuminated dust motes, and who knew how old they were? Older than time itself, it seemed, and it was _right_ , and less, and so much more, to step into the colored vortex, the void of hues.

Later, they would wonder who leaned in first. They might pretend to fight over it, tender smiles as ammunition, or they may agree that it was a joint effort.

Either way, both would know, deep in the cores of their beings, that it had passed between them: a group idea, a collective conscience, a shared desire and desperate need.

They wouldn't talk about this, either. But they would know.

The timeless beams danced over the light and the dark, the dandelion fluff and the fading star, as their lips met, and it could have just been a trick of the eyesight, or a mass hallucination, but later, they would look back and swear the lights grew brighter as they kissed.

Now, though, we have two sides of a coin, finally one after six thousand years of waiting, and it was _right_ , and less, and so much more.

It was just a bit ineffable.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I'd like to apologize for the French--I'm actively learning the language, and I'm sure there's errors, so please point them out if you notice any.
> 
> This was... a whirlwind of a project, honestly. It's been so much fun though, as feverish as the whole thing was. I had a blast, and I can't express my gratitude to you for reading my sugar-fueled sleep-deprived writing spree. But I can try: thank you, so, so much.


End file.
